a poet's lonely dreams

abundant farewell [to the fucked up duo] of lovers

to "deuce" (i'll just call you the devil),

i.

we ate stars for breakfast

and the moon was the silky

milk at the bottom of our bowls.

we danced in codes, and jokes,

and locked our little fingers inside

the palms of one another;

our minds were silently miming

between the sweet rhythms of the waltz

and crying ballets.

ii.

our intimacy was a fading supernova

that slowly died at night.

skin on skin of flavorless passion

that sparked volumes of spiteful moans

and neglectful pleas.

we fucked until the sun came up

and hated every moment;

but every night we called out to each other

in rough and dry voices that made the world envious.

we wanted each other more than aladdin wanted gold.

iii.

we sat on the roof, of a car still moving,

and in each others eyes we stared;

my thoughts twirled around in kaleidoscope

lust, and words left my mouth in sync with yours:

"i can't live without you."

iv.

like a pretty little tune, we screamed in

the fiery thrill of the night.

we lived young

and stayed forever beautiful

in what little lifetime we shared;

the only thing that grew old, is

the people who carry the memory of us.

don't you miss them, deuce?

v.

glass angels and wooden crucifixes followed

wherever we went; every jesus worshiping,

bible loving, god fearing boy and his mother,

condemned all of our drunk, high, and

blind journeys down black alleys at 3 am

and strip clubs.

we couldn't be saved if god himself opened the gates

and let us in, to rot in his paradise.

vi.

some days were full of static and white noise,

and we couldn't even stand to look at each other;

some days we fell into each others arms and meshed

together like tied knots.

the rest, we were fighting off thunderous darkness

that demanded to be heard: our sadness took us over,

and like the mindless cowards we were, we followed.

"if only we were stronger," right deuce?

vii.

on the brick walls that surrounded the park down the street

we wrote in busted knuckles and chalky fingers,

"we rule the world."

we fell asleep whispering our names to the clouds:

it was the last time we ever loved each other like that.

viii.

it rained almost forever for the next few days

and we floated backwards down streets

in a boat made of broken doors and windows,

paddling with stop signs—

this is a metaphor.

the next few days, what really happened,

was you left me.

my tears were pouring like hail.

i tried desperately to be yours again,

but i was just oblivious to the loud

signs that told me to stop.

ix.

we saw each other everywhere,

and everywhere i wanted you back into my arms;

life never felt so plain without you.

and it pains me to say this,

but you never seemed so colorful without me.

x.

i ate a bottle of pills to silence my mind.

your name was stuck on repeat, and it

never went away.

xi.

deuce, you absent little fuck:

i'd say that the pills killed me and

i wanted you to meet me in hell,

but you were already there

in that ugly infinity you spent

pretending to fucking love me.

xii. [or the epilogue/p.s. i'm too high to write]

the fact that i'm sadly still breathing,

and that my fingers are still writing,

means that i could live without you;

the fact that you are still fucking,

and your love is still loving,

means you, too, could live without me.

[but i don't know if i can accept that.]